


Mission: Good Boy

by literalmind



Category: Mission: Impossible (TV 1966)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Barney is lowkey afraid of dogs ok, But he finally finds a good one, Fluff, Gen, I suck at titles and summaries sorry, Mild Language, Rescuing Dogs, definitely not my best work but I had to get it out of my head, fear of dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29562663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literalmind/pseuds/literalmind
Summary: Barney doesn't like dogs. They screw up missions, and they scare him. They always seem to find him, too--no matter the mission, if there's a dog, it'll go after him. But on a mission to neutralize a Neo-Nazi's attempt to rise to power, Barney finds that maybe, just maybe, not all dogs are all that bad.Plot bunny that I had to get rid of.
Kudos: 1





	Mission: Good Boy

Barney was not overly fond of dogs.

In fact, animals in general were not his favorite things in the world. They were messy, irrational, and unpredictable, and they tended foul up the intricate operations of the IMF. But he disliked dogs the most. Especially big ones. Little dogs could be useful enough if properly trained. But big ones…well, they could be useful too, but Barney wasn’t about to utilize one in a mission anytime soon.

Dogs didn’t like Barney much, either. They never had. Even when he was a child, all the dogs in the neighborhood had always barked at him ferociously, chasing him, singling him out from the other kids. He supposed they could smell fear. Barney had never outgrown his aversion to the animals, and they had never let up in their animosity for him, either. The bigger the dog, it seemed, the stronger the mutual dislike.

And so, of course, what did he keep encountering on his missions? Dogs. Big dogs. Usually German Shepherds. These nefarious types loved their German Shepherds. Barney didn’t believe in God, but sometimes it was hard not to believe there was _something_ out there with a very twisted sense of humor, because the one thing that could best foil the IMF’s best-laid plans also happened to be Barney’s lifelong nemesis, and they kept popping up in what felt like every other operation. Including this one. Of course.

 _Why does everybody have to have a damn **dog**?! _Barney fumed, gritting his teeth, as yet another of these tan-and-black demons trotted into his limited field of vision. As if the beast had heard his thoughts, it pricked up its ears and stared in the engineer’s direction. _Dammit._ He held perfectly still, scarcely even daring to breathe, willing the dog to go on about its business—preferably on the opposite side of the two-acre estate. Barney was down in a sort of well next to the house, between the basement door and a retaining wall, and his head barely rose above the grass. If he was lucky, the beast wouldn’t notice him.

The demon was close. Close enough for the engineer to, in the moonlight, see its nose twitch suspiciously. A bead of sweat crept down Barney’s temple. His arms were beginning to ache from holding the modified drill up against the wall of the house; of _course_ the dog had appeared when he had been making a hole above his head. Slowly, carefully, he began to lower his arms.

 _Click._ His shoulder, grateful for the removal of stress, had chosen that moment to pop. The dog’s ears, which had begun to relax, snapped forward again. The engineer froze once more, silently cursing his joints. The shepherd took one step in his direction, about to check out the source of the noise, when the closing of a door around the front side of the house made it whip its head around. A voice rumbled—the voice of Schneider, the target of the mission. Barney felt his heart jump into his throat. What was Schneider doing outside?! Rollin was supposed to be keeping him occupied at the billiards table!

“As I say,” came the gravelly, German-accented voice, “There is nothing like a walk to clear the head of brandy.”

“Yesh, comrade, of courshe, but—” That was Rollin, pretending to be both Russian and absolutely slammed. Schneider’s voice cut him off.

“It will help, Comrade Varsky. The night air—”

“Yesh, but—”

“—will clear some of the fumes from your head, und after a few minutes, you will be sober enough to keep playing.” This was punctuated by a slightly muffled slapping sound, probably a clap on the back.

“But I am shober enough to play now,” protested Rollin’s voice. “Really, Herr Schneider, I—”

“Now, now, do not bother lying, comrade. I know a drunk man when I see one. And it is not sporting to play a drunk man at billiards, when he cannot even see straight! Go on, take a little walk, or just sit here and breathe. We shall return to the game when I have finished this cigarette.” The sound of a match being struck.

Great. A Nazi with good sportsmanship. That hadn’t been in Schneider’s dossier.

“Ah, well… I… all right, comrade,” Rollin’s voice sighed. “You are mosht conshidera—oh, hello there.”

The dog’s tail had started wagging as soon as it heard human voices, and it had trotted off round the corner, presumably to go greet the sources.

“You are very friendly for a guard dog,” Rollin’s voice remarked.

“Yes, that is Maximus.” The disgust was evident in the German’s voice. “He does not do his job well. I pay good money for a guard dog and _this_ is what they send me—a groveling, whining lapdog!” There was a thump and a yelp. “If an intruder came over the fence he would wag his tail and ask for his belly to be rubbed. I should shoot this one and send for a proper guard dog!” Another blow, another yelp. “ _Scheiβe Hund!_ ” Thud, thud, yelp.

“Herr Schneider!” Rollin’s voice was sharp, shocked. “Really, comrade, that is enough!”

Schneider chuckled over Maximus’s continued whimpers. “ _Ach_ , perhaps you are right, Comrade Varsky. This dog always makes my temper flare.” His voice was jovial again, as if he hadn’t just kicked his own dog’s ribs in. “Well, but you seem somewhat recovered, _ja?_ And I have finished my cigarette. Let us go continue the game.”

Footsteps crunched on gravel, and then the front door closed again. They were gone.

Barney let out a long breath and lifted the drill again. Schneider was one nasty piece of work, that was for sure; despite Barney’s feelings on dogs, he didn’t approve of any kind of animal cruelty. He’d seen enough abuse—of both animals and humans—in his childhood to last a lifetime. The engineer shook his head as he went back to drilling holes in the mortar. _Bastard. And yet he’s a good sport at billiards. Nazis are crazy, man._

After a minute, the quiet whine of the modified drill seemed to gain an echo. Barney took his finger off the trigger and listened. Another low whine, right by his head— _the dog!_ It was back, and this time it had found him.

But it didn’t bark, or growl, or lunge. It just stared at Barney sadly, shivering, its ears down, head and tail drooping. It wasn’t putting much weight on one front leg. The thing looked so woebegone that Barney actually felt sorry for it. He sighed through his nose. “Hey, uh, Max,” he whispered to the dog. Its ears rose a fraction of an inch at the non-hostile voice, and its tail swept once to each side.

“Your owner isn’t too nice, is he?” The dog’s tail gave another little wag. Barney knew he was working against the clock, that he needed to keep setting up the trap, but for some reason he was mesmerized at how just whispering to the dog made it seem happier. The shepherd crept a little closer to the edge of the wall. Barney sighed again.

“Well, come on.” He gestured to the steps leading down into the well. “I’ve got to finish this job. But you can stay down here with me. If you want. Ahem.” The engineer felt strange talking to a dog as if it were a person, but it seemed to understand him. It—oh, fine, _Max_ —limped over to the steps and picked its—his—way down them. He stopped at Barney’s feet and looked up hopefully, his tail wagging in a wider, more emphatic sweep. Tentatively, Barney extended a hand. Max didn’t make a move to bite it, so he slowly brought it down and rested it gently on his head. The dog’s tail wagged even harder; he opened his mouth and Barney jerked his hand away, but Max was only allowing his tongue to loll out. Barney could’ve sworn the dog was smiling.

He patted Max’s head again, more confidently this time, and even gave his ears a little ruffle. Then he turned his attention back to the job at hand. Max lay down on the concrete with his back touching Barney’s leg.

Barney smiled.

*****************

“Uhhh… Barney?” Jim Phelps stared at the large German Shepherd that was seated between the engineer and Rollin in the backseat of the getaway car.

“Our resident dog-hater made a friend, Jim,” Rollin quipped with one of his lopsided grins, giving the dog a scratch on the back. The dog tilted his head backwards in evident enjoyment.

“Yeah, this is Max. Schneider liked to play piñata with him. I figured since he won’t be needing a guard dog anymore…” Barney ruffled the shepherd’s fluffy ears.

“Jim, your mouth is hanging open,” chided Cinnamon from the passenger seat. “And we’re supposed to be at the airport in less than an hour.”

Phelps closed his mouth, gave his head a little shake, and faced front again. “Right, right.” He stepped on the gas. They peeled out of the soon-to-be-dead Nazi’s driveway, leaving behind a spray of dust and gravel. The car was silent for a good ten minutes. Jim kept glancing at Barney and the dog in the rearview mirror.

“So, you gonna keep him? I thought you were afraid of dogs.” Jim slowed for the border crossing and presented his fake passport. They waved him through.

“Well, I am. I’m still not a fan of dogs in general. But this one’s okay. And… yeah. Yeah, I think I’m gonna keep him.”

Rollin chuckled. “I guess you could say that Maximus here has _minimized_ Barney’s fear of dogs.”

The collective groans of the IMF were loud enough for the border guards to hear, a hundred yards behind them.

_~fin~_


End file.
